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Game of Snipers

Stephen Hunter
Chapters (74)
  1. Cover
  2. TITLES BY STEPHEN HUNTER
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. PART 1
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. PART 2
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. PART 3
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. PART 4
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. PART 5
  70. 61
  71. 62
  72. Acknowledgments
  73. About the Author
  74. What’s next onyour reading list?

Cover

Cover for Game of Snipers

TITLES BY STEPHEN HUNTER

THE BOB LEE SWAGGER SERIES

Game of Snipers

G-Man

Sniper’s Honor

The Third Bullet

Dead Zero

I, Sniper

Night of Thunder

The 47th Samurai

Time to Hunt

Black Light

Point of Impact

THE EARL SWAGGER SERIES

Havana

Pale Horse Coming

Hot Springs

THE RAY CRUZ SERIES

Soft Target

OTHER TITLES

I, Ripper

Dirty White Boys

The Day Before Midnight

Tapestry of Spies

The Second Saladin

The Master Sniper

Dedication

For Tracy Miller and all the other Gold Star Moms of the sandbox wars

Epigraph

I’ve noticed that I make people nervous.

—Repp, Obersturmbannführer, 3. SS-Panzerdivision “Totenkopf,” known as “Der Meisterschütze”

PART 1

1

Somewhere

The present

He saw Katie amid the prairie flowers. She sat, legs crossed, while the wind played with her hair, and it gleamed in the sun. She smiled brightly. She always smiled. Four years old was the age of smiles. She looked so happy, and around her the grass fluttered in the breeze, and it must have pleased her, for she turned to face it, tilting her little nose up.

“Katie!” he called. “Katie, sweetie . . . Katie!”

She turned to his voice, and her blue eyes lit with love.

“Daddy,” she called. “Hi, Daddy!”

“Sweetie, I’m coming,” Paul yelled, and lunged to run to her, to hold her tight, to smother her in his arms and protect her from all. It’s what a father did.

But he could not make it.

He was handcuffed to a post. The sharpness of metal pulled hard against his wrists.

“Katie, I—”

“Daddy, I have to go.”

“No, Katie, no. I’ll be right there.”

But his wrists would not yield, and though he yanked hard enough to draw blood from his flesh, the cuffs would not give.

“Bye, Daddy,” said Katie, as she rose to run away. “I love you.”

And then she was gone, and he was aware that he was awake. Dream finished, he was awake. But the odd thing was that the binding of his wrists was no dream, and he yanked hard, the steel biting. He could feel a solid post threaded through his bound arms, mooring him upright as solidly as Joan of Arc had been for the fire.

He blinked, it did not go away.

Other oddities revealed themselves. For one, a gentle wind pushed the smell of prairie grass against his nostrils, and, two, he felt the radiance of a sun above him, welcoming him—or damning him—to wakefulness.

He did not smell his own piss and vomit. He did not feel the crusty ripple of long-uncleaned skin. He hadn’t shit his pants, or if he had, someone had cleaned up the mess for him.

He wasn’t wearing that pair of ragged chinos, fifteen years old, filched from some garbage can, or that old pair of Adidas, two sizes too big. He was in turquoise surgical scrubs and white socks.